Unchained Memory (The Interstellar Rescue Series Book 1)

by Donna S. Frelick

  Shit. Knowing he’d already said too much, Ethan stonewalled.

  Dan sighed. “Okay, okay. Can’t blame a guy for trying. All I get to hear every day is how much the kids hate their parents and vice versa. What does Claussen say about it?”

  Ethan shifted uncomfortably in his seat and said nothing.

  “You haven’t discussed this with the guy who a) invented the protocol and b) sent you the patient?” Dan gave him a look. “What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “Come on, Dan. What does it look like if I go whining to Daddy that I can’t solve the puzzle he gave me?”

  “Oh, I see. Little Ethan has father issues. Okay, we’ll leave that for another session. So, to recap, she’s telling you this wild-ass tale and the problem is you think you actually believe her? And that would be what? Unprofessional? Unwise? Unhelpful?”

  “Yes. Not to mention crazy.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  The late afternoon sun was lowering toward evening, throwing long shadows across the curving, multicolored flowerbeds and the parking lots, the replica of the Parthenon and the band shell of Centennial Park. September heat still hung in the air, but the cool promise of fall sighed occasionally on the breeze. Not a bad time for a run, if you had to run. And I did have to run. It was either run in the park or run completely amuck, and the police tend to frown on the latter, I’ve learned from hard experience.

  The park would be closing in a half-hour or so. Most of the crowds had already moved on to cocktails or whatever they did at home before supper. It was quiet and just this side of forlorn under the tall oaks on either side of the main entrance road. Running was easier this time of day. It was my favorite time in the park.

  Three times I ran the loop around the duck pond and garden behind the Parthenon before the endorphins kicked in. Once that happened, it was possible to relax and simply exist for a while outside the pain and the effort. I lived for that moment—I guess all runners do. The rest of the process I could definitely do without.

  Of course the danger, once your body hits that groove, is that your mind is free to drift along with whatever currents may be streaming through your consciousness. And on this particular evening, like most evenings lately, all my rivers were flowing straight into the Sea of Ethan.

  The way I wanted him had gone far beyond fantasy now. I wanted him with an ache that was deep and constant and rooted in some primal part of my being that had very little to do with my higher brain functions. I had seen women act like cats in heat before, but I’d never felt like one myself. It was humbling to be that enthralled, that disarmed, that vulnerable to what was basically a chemical reaction.

  It couldn’t be anything more than that. Ethan Roberts was a kind and sympathetic man, but he cared for me in a professional way, not a personal one. He was smart and used a wry sense of humor to make me feel comfortable, but he wasn’t interested in getting close or being friends or having a relationship beyond the doctor/patient one. I was clear on all of that.

  So why could I still feel the warm imprint of his arms holding me? Why did the thought of hooking my hands around the back of his neck and pulling his head down to press my lips against his drive me crazy? Why did the thought of him at odd times of the day and night leave me wet and throbbing with need? Damn it!

  I picked up the pace as I came around the shuttered kiosk that stood beside the duck pond, trying to bleed my frustration out onto the pavement. There was a car sitting in the little triangle of gravel at the side of the building, a man sitting in the car. It struck me as odd, for some reason. There were plenty of other parking spots. What was he doing there? I glanced back at him. The man seemed to be engrossed in his phone, minding his own business, but the hairs rose on my neck. I ran a little faster.

  Then there was the question of how much longer Ethan and I were going to bang our heads against the wall of my particular form of insanity before either he or I or both of us gave up. I remembered a place and a time that couldn’t possibly be real, yet I knew in my heart that it was. I had memories of that place that lasted months, yet I was gone from my real life for only three hours. Ethan admitted that was crazy, but refused to say I was. None of it made sense. And now even he seemed at a loss for how to proceed. It was beginning to look like I no longer had a legitimate excuse to keep seeing him. He wasn’t going to be able to help me much longer.

  Shit. I slowed and nearly stopped, tears starting in my eyes from out of nowhere. Oh, God, that is SO inappropriate. I didn’t want to stop seeing him, whether he was helping me or not. Which probably meant I should Stop right away; Do not pass GO; Do not collect my bill for $200.

  I took up my jog again, but not before I noticed the car that had been parked by the duck pond kiosk was now behind me on the road. He was driving much too slowly, though not too close, as if he was keeping pace with me. What the hell?

  My heart rate kicked up beyond what was necessary to keep me moving. It was getting late, and I knew better than to take any chances. I pretended not to see him and kept on to the right side of the garden, watching to see if my paranoia was founded in reality.

  He followed behind me. When I could see he would have no choice but to continue on the one-way drive, I cut back and sprinted for the other side of the Parthenon, where my car was parked.

  I didn’t look back, but I heard him gun the engine, trying to get around the loop in time to see where I was headed. I was faster. I got to my Civic, popped the door, dropped into the seat and started her up. I was out of that lot, down the drive and burning rubber onto West End before the guy in the white sedan got to the front of the faux Greek temple.

  I checked my rear view mirror all the way home, but there was no sign of him. I was still shaking when I pulled into my driveway. I decided a drink was definitely in order, maybe two. And I wondered if I had any of that weed still hidden away somewhere.

  “Can Uncle Ethan read us a story?”

  Michael turned on the charm for his mom, but it was Ethan who felt the lump in his throat, seeing the youngster dressed for bed in SpongeBob pj’s, holding a well-read copy of Dr. Seuss in one hand and his sister’s tiny fingers in the other.

  Lisa had been catching up with Ethan after dinner. She grinned at him.

  “I swear I didn’t put them up to it.”

  “No. I did.” Ethan stood up and looked at the kids. “And it’s Cat in the Hat! My favorite! Let’s go!”

  The three of them raced down the hall to Michael’s room, threw pillows on the floor and sat. Ethan settled in the middle with the book on his lap and a child curled under each arm. He opened the book and cleared his throat, looking to each side to catch a glimpse of the anticipation on the faces of his young audience.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Really? Should I read now?”

  Kayla sighed. “Uncle Ethan, you do this every time.” She laid her hand on his thigh and tilted her head up at him. “Just read it.”

  “Okay,” he conceded. And began. The laughter started almost immediately, and didn’t end until Lisa and Dan came in to call a halt to the proceedings after the third time through.

  The kids hugged him and left him with sloppy kisses on each cheek. He got up stiffly, a smile clinging to his lips, and went back down the hall to the kitchen. He helped himself to another beer and stepped out on the deck, thinking he would wait for Dan and Lisa, then say good night. It had been a long day, a good one overall, though questions still nagged him like the pain that was creeping into his leg.

  “Hey, you know we usually set a limit of two readings of Cat in the Hat.” Dan flopped into a lounge chair beside him on the deck. “You can, too.”

  “What? And lose my status as cool uncle? No way.”

  “Pushover.” Dan stretched out his legs and switched gears. “You know, I was thinking about your problem all the way through dinner—you know, the non-delusional patient with the crazy story?”

  “Oh?”
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br />   “She’s not the only one you’ve had with this problem. What about Ida? Where was she from again? Kentucky?”

  “West Virginia. There are a lot of similarities in their cases.”

  “But that doesn’t make you feel better.”

  “I wasn’t able to help her, either.”

  “Have you ever followed up on her case?”

  Ethan turned to look at his friend. “It hadn’t occurred to me.”

  Dan shrugged. “Might be worthwhile now. Maybe things resolved on their own or maybe she came up with her own explanation. Either way, you’d have some insights you can use here.”

  “That’s a good idea, Dan, thanks.”

  “Ida wasn’t the only one, either.” Dan waved his beer bottle in Ethan’s direction. “There was that Air Force colonel you saw for about a month a few years ago, remember him? He didn’t last long, but he threw you for a loop.”

  “God, I haven’t thought about him in years.”

  “He was before the accident.” His friend made a careful study of the label on his beer. “You’ve had some things on your mind.”

  Before the accident. There had been a few in those first years on his own after leaving the Institute. He’d have to look through the files.

  “Speaking of which,” Dan went on, “something tells me there’s more to this particular patient than you’re letting on.”

  Ethan’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?”

  “You know damn well what I mean, E. If I bet you twenty bucks she was smart and good-looking, would you take my bet?”

  Not if I wanted to keep my money, Ethan thought. He let his head fall to the back of the chair and stared at the sky full of stars.

  “That’s what I thought. So we’ve got two healthy, young, good-looking, heterosexual people in a room together for hours at a time over almost five months. Do I detect a little trans/counter/trans going on here?”

  “Come on, Dan. I’m aware of the pitfalls. I’ve been extremely careful to keep everything strictly professional.”

  “No doubt you have. In fact, you’ve always been very good at fending off the inappropriate advances of your female patients before, even the lookers.” He laughed. “Remember that model with the OCD that Elizabeth was so jealous of? Lord, I thought your lovely wife was going to kill you over that one.”

  “Liz almost did kill me over that one,” Ethan reminded him. “And it was pretty easy to reign in the old libido in that case, given the details of her life the model insisted on sharing.”

  “Not so in this case, I gather.”

  Ethan sighed. Should he lie or just keep his mouth shut?

  “Oh, boy. That bad, huh?”

  “Bad enough I should probably send her to someone else.” The admission shocked him. His body clenched with unhappiness.

  Dan was staring at him, eyes wide with what Ethan prayed was only surprise and not horror. “Wait a minute, you have feelings for this woman? Feelings that, need I remind you, might possibly be mixed up with unresolved issues from a failed relationship with your late wife?”

  The effect of what Dan was asking him hit Ethan like a punch in the gut. That couldn’t possibly be true, could it? Because if he answered yes to that question, continuing to treat Asia would be totally out of line.

  “No,” he said, not at all sure if he was lying.

  “Well, that wasn’t exactly a resounding negative.” Dan was still watching him closely. “But I believe you. Maybe more than you believe yourself. You’re a good doc, E. You wouldn’t put your patient or yourself in a compromising position. Still, if you even suspect you should send her to someone else, why haven’t you done it?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s like I don’t want to give up. She’s been through every other doc in town. Even Claussen says he can’t help her. Where is she going to go? What am I supposed to say—just get over it?”

  “Eventually, whether you say that or not, she may just have to.” He leaned forward and caught Ethan’s gaze. “It’s the dirty little secret of our profession, and we all know it. Especially with the strong ones. Sometimes we just don’t know what the hell else to tell them.”

  Ethan was silent in the face of his friend’s insight. Not long afterward, he put down his unfinished beer and bid Dan and Lisa goodnight. But he didn’t go home. Instead, he spent an hour following the dark, twisting turns of Old Hickory Boulevard around the city, wondering whether he was attracted to Asia Burdette because he loved the way her smile lit up her eyes or because he admired the strength that had carried her through so much trauma in her life or because, God help him, his lonely soul craved the warmth and sympathy he sensed in her heart.

  In the end, he knew, it didn’t matter. Whatever their source, his feelings were inappropriate. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about them.

  Except vow never to act on them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Hey, wake up, girl! The next Kenny Chesney just walked in the room!”

  I jumped six inches off the worn cloth seat of my office chair when the cowboy banged open the door and rolled in, a wide grin spread across his square jaw. Couldn’t blame him for trying to make an impression, but I wasn’t in any mood for it that day.

  “Is that so?” My tone was as dry as the wide place in a Texas road he’d come from. “Let me guess, you got Mister Rowe’s name from a friend of a friend and you’re here all the way from Podunk to see him without an appointment. Don’t suppose you have a tape? A portfolio? Photo? Something?”

  The cowboy, who wasn’t bad looking once you got around the dusty Stetson, grinned even wider. “Honey, I got all three and anything else you need. I even got an appointment, believe it or not. Look there in your little book. Dillon Marks.”

  I glanced down and, sure enough, the boy had it right. “Well, aren’t you special?” I gave him a syrupy smile. “Have a seat, Mister Marks, and I’ll tell Mister Rowe you’re here.”

  “You do that, sweet thing.” He winked at me and sat.

  I left the roomful of wannabes who’d been waiting all morning to see JW gaping at the newcomer and went in to Rita’s office.

  “Got a live one out in reception.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, that’d be Dillon. JW’s been trying to hook him for a month now. Guess maybe he’s coming around.”

  “Well, this is the first I’ve heard of him.”

  She got up and moved toward Rowe’s office. “Uh-huh. That’s because you got somebody else on your mind. You haven’t been paying attention to much of anything. Send him on in.”

  I scowled at her and went to give Dillon the keys to the kingdom. I sent all the other kids home, knowing it would be a waste of their time to wait on Rowe any more that day. Part of the wooing of Dillon Marks would involve lunch and a tour of the studio and drinks and dinner and more drinks with important people until the poor boy’s head would be spinning. He winked at me again, though, as he and JW left the office, so I would say he was one who could handle it, at least for a while.

  Once the office was quiet, Rita came out and perched on my desk. “You might as well go home.”

  “Think I’ll stay for a while.” I started sorting idly through a stack of filing. “I need the cash.”

  “I hear that. Fine, then, we’ll do the crosswords after lunch. You done the wild thing with that doc of yours yet?”

  “Hey, come on, Rita, you know I can’t do that!”

  She just grinned. “No, but you want to awful bad.”

  My face turned as red as my three-hundred-pound uncle’s at a Fourth of July picnic. “Actually, I haven’t even seen Ethan in over a week.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “We’ve kind of hit a snag in the therapy.” I frowned. “He’s asked for some time to do a little research.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “Damned if I know. Something about similar past cases. We’ve got another appointment next week.”

  “Um-hmm.”


  “Oh, hush.” I started to laugh, but what I saw when I glanced out the window stopped me cold. A white Impala, a middle-aged, dark-haired goon behind the wheel.

  Rita’s gaze bounced from me to the window and back in gathering confusion. “What’s wrong?”

  “You see that white car on the other side of the street? Call me crazy, but I think that guy is stalking me.”

  Rita’s jaw dropped. “What the hell are you talking about?” She sounded like she didn’t believe me, but she stood up and went to the window to get a good look at him. She must have been visible from the street, because the Impala started up and moved off in a hurry. “Damn! I didn’t get the license.”

  “No, me neither. It’s a temp tag. Can’t read the numbers.”

  She turned to consider me, arms folded across her chest. “What the hell is going on, Asia?”

  “I saw this guy at Centennial Park Sunday a week ago. Seemed like he was following me in his car, you know? Then I see the same car—or it seemed like it anyway—a few days later in the park again when I’m running. Then last night, I see the same car, same guy down the street in my neighborhood. I’m really starting to freak out.”

  Rita strode behind my desk and picked up the phone. “All right, girl, we are calling the police this minute.”

  I shot her a glare that asked if I looked like an idiot. “Rita, have you ever actually dealt with the police? They won’t do a damn thing unless he lays a hand on me.”

  “I don’t give a shit.” Her foot tapped as she waited for the call to go through. “They’re gonna hear about it anyway—Hello? Yes, I need to report an incident.”

  Several transfers and repetitions of the problem later we were connected with someone who agreed to send an officer out to take a report. While we waited for the assigned unit to show up, we speculated. Or rather, Rita did.

  “Do you have any idea who this guy is? He’s not one of ours, is he?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He doesn’t look the type.” None of the broken-hearted songsters who haunted Music Rowe had it in them to do anything like this, and, besides, I didn’t recognize the guy from the office. “He looks more like a serious thug, or a PI or something.”